


The Courage to Yield

by jeahtastic



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fix-It, GRADENCE - Freeform, Gravebone, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Percival Graves is the Human Equivalent of Grumpy Cat, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, credence is 21, with a soft spot a mile wide in the shape of Credence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9145246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeahtastic/pseuds/jeahtastic
Summary: So the bad news was that Credence saw through his No-Maj repellent charm every time, and the worse news was that now Graves came off as a stalker who bought young boys. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Percival Graves.”In which Percival Graves is completely hopeless outside of his professional life, and even more so when it comes to Credence.Pre-movie and then canon-divergence.





	1. When Percy Met Credence

The obvious course of action was termination. To be fair, that was his plan before he had summoned Tina to his office, where she sat across from his desk avoiding eye contact,  shoulders hunched up to her ears. This Tina was silent and forlorn, and while he appreciated that for once she wasn’t mouthing off or disobeying a direct order, he found himself regretting the reason for it.

Tina was a loyal and dedicated Auror. She deserved better than a quiet, shameful dismissal. But unlike Tina, Graves followed directives, especially when they were from the President herself. He took a deep breath, dreading what he was about to say, when Tina interrupted. Of course.

“Sir, I know what I did was wrong. Unprofessional.” Tina was meeting his gaze now, a familiar determined glint in her eyes. “And I’m in no position to make requests.”

“Definitely not,” Graves leaned back in his chair. “But I have a feeling that’s not going to deter you.”

“There’s a boy, Sir.”

“Yes, I read your report. You intervened on the behalf of this No-Maj.”

“No-Maj or not, no one deserves to be treated the way his mother treats him.” Her mouth had hardened into an angry line. “I’m not going to go near the Second Salemers again, I promise. But that boy has nobody. I won’t ask this of anyone else--”

“Lucky me.”

“--but I know you’re a good man, Sir. Deep down.”

“If you want me to do you a favor, don’t add that last part.”

“Graves, please.” Her big brown eyes were shiny with unshed tears, like the saddest cow in the pasture. “Just check up on him, every once in awhile.”

Graves then, predictably, went off on a lecture about the dangers of meddling with No-Maj affairs and how, as the Director of Magical Security, he had a responsibility of upholding the sacred laws that protected their community, and lastly, he was a very busy man, being the Director and all, and why would she think he had the time to go around running errands for her?

She sat through it in silence, eyes downcast. When it was over, she simply gave a small nod. “I understand, Sir. I’ll go clear out my desk.”

Maybe it was the defeated slope of her shoulders, so unlike the usual ferocity that had her appearing much taller than her petite frame. Or perhaps it was that even in her last audience with Graves, she chose to appeal not for herself, but for someone else. Someone powerless and vulnerable.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Graves sighed. “Wait, Tina.”

She turned around, cautiously hopeful.

“No promises. I’ll observe from afar, at the most.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, Sir.”

“And,” Graves couldn't believe what he was about to do. No wonder Picquery accused him of getting soft. “I’ll see what I can do about your dismissal. No promises on that front, either.”

Tina broke into a wide grin and he added quickly, “Now get out of my office.” Last thing he needed was a hug from his most troublesome subordinate.

She gave him one anyway.

 

* * *

  

The first time Graves saw him, it was by accident.

About a week after his meeting with Goldstein, he was surprised to see a small crowd milling across the street from MACUSA’s entrance. They were loosely gathered around a woman whose small stature did nothing to impede her voice from carrying across the square.

“But where there is light there is shadow, friend.” She had a flair for the dramatic, he’d give her that. “Something is stalking our city, wreaking destruction…”

Graves eyed the banner behind her, a gaudy display of a broken wand clenched in a pair of fists. It was to the point, at least. Ironic, how these Second Salemers had no idea how close to the epicenter of American witchcraft they really were.

Hovering at the edge of the crowd was a young man passing out fliers for their cause, his gaze trained to the ground. Graves recognized him from the grainy photograph in Tina’s report.

Credence. He was a bit older than Tina made him out to be, but his ducked shoulders and overall air of timidity inspired the kind of protective instinct one would have for a kicked puppy. In Credence’s case, he was more like a cat who managed to avoid being drowned, only to crawl out of the burlap sack and into the arms of a fate much worse: a life with Mary Lou.

That night, in the quiet of his apartment as he nursed a finger of bourbon, Graves heard the echo of unfamiliar words. They conjured images of hellfire and brimstone, his beloved city set ablaze. At the center was Credence, wandering through the flames. Light reflected in his dark eyes, twisting into something unrecognizable. He looked at peace.

 

* * *

 

At the root of it was curiosity. For all his years as an Auror, Graves had a minimum amount of interaction with No-Majs. There were Obliviator teams for clean-up and repellent charms to dissuade conversation. He never had the time, nor the inclination, to examine how the other half lived.

Yet even with his limited knowledge of the intricacies of the No-Maj world, Graves knew his subject of study was an anomaly. Which was precisely the reason for his newly developed interest.

Lunch in hand, he headed up Broadway and swung a right on Duane, emerging onto Foley Square where he knew the New Salem Philanthropic Society was giving its next public sermon.

Mary Lou was in the throes of a passionate speech, her voice ringing in the brisk, autumn air. Graves was posted at the mouth of an alleyway, biting into a hotdog from a cart Tina recommended. He appeared to be another bored businessman, taking in some midday entertainment from the newest quack on a soapbox.

Except Graves had been to the last half a dozen of these gatherings, gaze intent as he swept the crowd, searching. He had a growing fear that one day his search will come up empty, Mary Lou having finally gone too far in her fervor for corporal punishment.

Something settled in his chest as he spotted Credence, head bent as he meandered through the spectators. The relief was short lived, as even from a good distance away Graves could tell something was wrong. Credence was cradling a pile of fliers in the crook of his arm, the position awkward and cumbersome. His other hand attempted to pass out the leaflet, but tremors made it appear he was shaking it in anger instead.

Graves felt his temper flaring and he shot a glare at Mary Lou, tempted to enact his own brand of punishment with a flick of his wand, striking her down like the vengeful God she preached about. It was a testament to his self-control that she remained standing.

He turned back to Credence, only to find the boy frozen and meeting his gaze, the same surprise on both their faces. Graves glanced around and behind him, but there was nothing else that would warrant such attention. He even double-checked to ensure his No-Maj repellent charm was still in place.  

For the rest of the meeting, Credence didn’t look in his direction again, retreating behind his mother as if to blend into her shadow.

Graves had never stayed until the end of one these things before, but today he waited. Twenty minutes later, he was rewarded with an emptying sidewalk. Mary Lou had given Credence a stern talking-to before departing, his sisters trailing like faithful ducklings, leaving him behind.

As Credence headed down the block, no doubt tasked with handing out every flier before he was to return home, Graves began to tail him. He had no real purpose, except perhaps to prove a theory.

After three blocks, stopping intermittently to pass out literature, Credence ducked into a narrow alleyway. Graves followed at a distance, unsure of what to expect as he rounded the corner. A clandestine meeting? A mountain of discarded pamphlets? It could be anything.

Or nothing. He reached the end of the alley and was met with the disappointing sight of a brick wall. Credence was nowhere to be seen.

Graves was glad no one was around to see the top Auror in the country get bested by a No-Maj. Shaking his head, Graves turned to leave, only to find Credence blocking his way. In other circumstances, Graves would be palming his wand just in case, if he wasn’t so sure that Credence was incapable of hurting a fly.

Under the bowl cut, Credence’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “Why are you following me?”

Graves had not prepared for this outcome. The best his short-circuited brain came up with was, “I, uh, wanted a flier.”

Credence narrowed his eyes, but nevertheless plucked a single sheet from the pile tucked against his chest, and held it outstretched. The tremors were still there.

Graves took it, muttering a ‘thanks’ as he pretended to examine the piece of paper. Credence was already retreating when Graves called out “Wait!”, stuffing the flier into his pocket.

Credence paused, his back to Graves, shoulders stiffening. “I’m not interested, Sir.”

“What?”

Credence took a deep breath and whipped around. “I cannot accept your money. And I won’t do--” His momentary burst of courage was waning as he grew red, eyes carefully averted. “I won’t perform- those things you want. I don’t do that.”

Horror descended on Graves as he realized what Credence was implying. “Oh God, no,” He cringed. “Sorry, that’s probably blasphemous.”

“It is. Carnal desires are alway a sin but,” Credence swallowed. “Especially those.”

“Shit, I meant taking the Lord’s name in vain. But, uh, look,” Graves attempted to salvage the situation. “I’m not here to buy you. I promise.”

Credence glanced at him from under his fringe of hair, wary.

“I saw you, at the meeting. With the Second Salemers.” Graves figured he’d start with the truth and go from there.

“I know,” Credence said. “You’re there a lot.”

Graves was taken aback. “You saw me? Even the other times?”

Credence had the constipated expression of someone trying very hard not to point out the obvious. “Yes. I didn’t think you were trying to hide it.”

“I wasn’t.” Except he was. So the bad news was that Credence saw through his No-Maj repellent charm every time, and the worse news was that now Graves came off as a stalker who bought young boys. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Percival Graves.”

After a beat, manners won out over prudence. “Credence. Barebone.”

“Hello, Credence.” Graves offered a kind smile. He was a bit out of practice. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I really mean you no harm. I was watching you at the meeting,” Graves made a mental note to work on phrasing that’d make him sound less of a creep. “And I think you’re hurt. Are you?”

“No, Sir.” Credence angled his body away in a poor attempt to shield his hands, the survival instinct of an injured beast.

“Alright,” Graves was hesitant to push, amazed that Credence hadn’t already bolted. “Just in case, then.” He pictured the healing salve in his medicine cabinet at home, summoning it with a subtle twist of his wand inside his pocket. He withdrew his hand, holding the small, glass vial. “This is for you.”

Credence’s focus darted between Graves and the proffered bottle.

“Just something for cuts and scrapes,” Or worse, thought Graves. “It heals almost instantly. Might make it easier to use your hands.”

On reflex, Credence gripped the stack of paper against his chest, only to immediately loosen his hold with a painful hiss.

“Here, let me show you.” Graves held out a hand, gesturing towards himself.

After a lengthy passing of time, Credence slowly closed the distance between them, placing one tentative hand in his. Graves suppressed a victory whoop, instead turning Credence’s hand so that it was palm up, cradled in his own. Lacerations, ugly and raw, criss-crossed over the pale skin.

Graves glanced up at Credence, who averted his gaze, ashamed. A righteous anger roiled in Graves’ gut, first towards Mary Lou for inflicting such violence, then at the world at large, for allowing such violence to thrive.

Wordlessly, he uncorked the vial and tipped some of its contents over the wounds. The amber liquid slithered into the ragged lines of flesh, as if alive, and right before their eyes, skin started to stitch together.

From personal experience, Graves knew the process to be quite painful, almost as bad as getting the injuries in the first place. But Credence showed no signs of it, staring in open awe at his palm.

When it was over, Credence gave a shudder that Graves felt through his hold. Graves couldn’t resist swiping a thumb over the fresh skin, the scars smooth and pink. With time, those too will fade.

Graves cleared his throat, breaking the careful moment between them. “It’s a tincture I picked up. In Europe.”

Credence nodded, curling his healed hand by his chest. He stared, wide-eyed, but without fear or disdain. There was only pure wonder, and Graves couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that, if ever.

Graves recapped the salve and gave it to Credence, who tucked it away into an inner pocket.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves.” Credence said in a hush.

“Just Graves is fine,” he paused. “Or Percival. If you prefer.”  
  
Credence smiled, a delicate curl of his lips. He seemed out of practice, too. “Thank you, Percival.”


	2. Fantastic Feels (and How to Avoid Them)

Over the next couple of weeks, Graves continued to be the Second Salem Preservation Society’s most avid listener. If his secretary noticed him taking lunch outside more often than not these days, she made no comment.

He had two bagged lunches in hand, and the rest of his afternoon cleared. The temperature was dropping as they neared the end of autumn, but Graves found he didn’t mind the chill.

He was less than a minute into his post, leaning against a streetlamp, when Credence spotted him from across the street. His mother was preoccupied, proselytizing in front of her church, but Credence threw a quick glance at her anyway before smiling shyly in his direction. Graves quirked his lip in return.

He still hadn’t figured out how Credence was immune to his repellent charm. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Credence was a squib.

“Credence?”

Credence peered up from where he was devouring the sandwich Graves had got him. They were seated on a bench, in a park about a block away from the church. No one paid them any mind. In fact, passersby tended to realize they forgot something urgent in the opposite direction when they came close.

Graves’ own lunch sat half-eaten in his lap. “Did you know your real parents?”

“No,” Credence swallowed an oversized bite of pastrami. “Ma took me in when I was eight. Before that, all I can remember is the orphanage.”

Graves nodded, returning to his sandwich.

“Oh, but my mother was a witch.”

Choking, Graves coughed out, “What?”

Credence didn’t seem to notice. “That’s what Ma says. That my mother was a witch, and that’s why nobody wanted me. If it weren’t for her, I’d’ve been in that orphanage until I aged out.”

Graves held off on the rest of his lunch. Credence had a habit of saying shocking things with the nonchalance of someone who didn’t know different. Those statements usually began with “Ma says”.

“Ma says--”

Graves braced himself.

“--that she saved us from a life of whoring for scraps. And that everything she does, she does it to save our souls.”

“Is that why when we first met, you thought I was,” Graves thought of the term his great Aunt Ethel would’ve used. “A patron?”

Credence had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “No. And I never apologized for that. I’m sorry, Percival.”

Hearing his first name being used was still a foreign enough occurrence to unsettle him. Graves cleared his throat, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s fine.”

“No, I shouldn’t have assumed that of you, just because of the way you dressed or that you’re, um,” Credence trailed off.

“I’m what?”

“Older.” Credence bit his lip, quick to add, “But they don’t usually look like you.”

Graves was almost afraid to ask, the term ‘older’ still haunting him. “And how do I look?”

“Handsome.” Credence squeezed his eyes shut, face turning a fetching shade of pink. “I should’ve known someone like you wouldn’t need to-- especially with someone like me.”

Graves was still digesting that sentence when Credence continued.

“The men who approach me look nothing like you.”

“Do you often have men approaching you?”

“Not as much as when I was younger.”

Credence was all of twenty-one now; Graves couldn’t bear the thought of what he meant by younger. He was tired of being filled with impotent rage.

“There’s also been less since,” Credence touched the blunt ends of his hair, trailing off again. He abruptly changed tracks. “Ma says that vanity is seeking the esteem of others before God, which is a sin. And sins need to be atoned for.”

Graves had lost his appetite. For a lack of something better to do with his hands, he wrapped up the remainder of his lunch, spending an inordinate amount of concentration on the task. There were a great deal of things he wanted to say in response, most being variations on besmirching the good name of “Ma”, and one quieter voice, in the back of his mind, desperate to reassure Credence that he looked fine, better than fine.

“I’m sorry, Percival.” Credence was fiddling with the balled up wax paper in his lap, his own lunch long finished. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong.” It came out gruffer than intended. “I should be sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not doing more.”

A pale hand rested on top of his own, stilling his anxious movements. It reminded Graves of the first time Credence had initiated contact, the same palm bloody and bruised.

“You’ve done more for me than most people have. Or would.”

He looked up to meet Credence’s gaze.

“I’m still not sure why our paths crossed, but I’m glad it did. It’s--” Credence glanced away. “It’s been a blessing, getting to know you.”

The simple statement said in the earnest, unadorned fashion typical of Credence, nearly brought him to tears. The truth was, he’d been harboring a similar sentiment. He’d never dreaded going to work but now, he actually had something to look forward to. It made returning to his empty apartment all the more difficult, the loneliness stark in contrast.

This was dangerous territory.

“Percival,” Credence had at some point shifted closer, until their legs were pressed together on the bench. This close, Graves could see the dark sweep of his lashes, the curve of his cheek. “I--”

“I have to go.” Graves stood up abruptly, tripping over his own shoes. “I need to get back to work.”

“Oh, alright.” Credence’s disappointment was almost enough to make him reconsider. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

No. Say no. “Of course.”

Graves was a weak, weak man, a fact compounded by his hasty retreat back to the Woolworth Building, where he rushed passed his secretary to the relative safety of his office.

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. This was why he dedicated his life to his career. Outside of MACUSA lurked unspeakable horrors, such as feelings and the complications inherent in them.

It was no secret that Percival Graves was a confirmed bachelor, although the case was self-inflicted. A man in his position, with his family name, had no shortage of suitors. But his apparent lack of interest in settling down soon became common knowledge, as he dodged questions about his personal life, from family and colleagues alike, with a deftness that was rarely seen outside of a Quidditch field.  

He turned forty this year, still unattached. He had a firm retirement plan in place, which consisted of dying while fighting the good fight, hopefully in a blaze of glory and not at the hands of a petty criminal who got lucky.

His mother passed away five years ago, his father following suit a year later. They were married for almost fifty years.

On his deathbed, his father had clasped his and his brother’s hand, leaving instructions to “take care of each other, you’re all that’s left now”. Except that wasn’t entirely accurate, seeing as his brother’s wife and kids were in the other room, physical proof that the Graves family line continued on.

So with his older brother fulfilling the parental obligations, Graves was free to indulge his workaholic tendencies with a single-minded focus that left everything else by the wayside. By all means, Graves had his life on track.

Getting involved with a No-Maj half his age was not a planned stop on his carefully constructed route. Although, if Credence was a squib then he was entitled to a ride on the train, or at least knowledge of the train.

Graves groaned again. Best to abandon the whole metaphor before he worked in some sort of horn blowing analogy.

The firecom on his desk flared to life, the voice of his secretary crackling through the flames. “Sir? Are you ready for the meeting with Madam President?”

Of course, that was today. “I’ll be right there.”

 

* * *

 

“The International Confederation is threatening to send a delegation.” Picquery crossed her arms, mouth pressed into a hard line. “They think this is related to Grindelwald’s attacks in Europe.”

“This is a beast.” Graves inspected the article in The New York Ghost, a picture of a gutted building, like those in the aftermath of an earthquake, besides the text. “No human could do what this thing is capable of.”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, their small gathering of high level Aurors swiveled around. Graves’ stomach dropped at the sight of Tina Goldstein, dragging a haphazard man behind her. Next to him, Picquery stiffened.

“I made your position here quite clear, Miss Goldstein.” Picquery hated repeating herself. This was not going to end well.

“Yes, Madam President,” Tina said with a nervous lilt. “But I--”

Graves tried to signal with his eyes: _leave with your dignity still intact, Goldstein_.

Instead, she continued. “There’s been a minor incident--”

“Well, this office is currently concerned with very major incidents.” Picquery’s tone brokered no arguments. “Get out.”

“Y- yes, ma’am.” Tina withdrew with her tail between her legs, the confused man lagging behind.

What was that about?

 

* * *

 

After the meeting concluded, Graves took the elevator down to a destination he'd long been avoiding.

The basement level was every bit as bleak as he remembered it from the last time he'd been here, years ago. The airless room was filled with the sound of clacking typewriters and the squeaks of memo rats.

He headed towards the far back corner, where the Wand Permit Office resided.

“Where’d she pick you up?” A nasally voice demanded to know. The supervisor.

“Me?” An unfamiliar voice. The man with Tina.

“Have you been tracking them Second Salemers again?” The supervisor sounded agitated.

At the mention of the religious group, Graves hastened his pace. He rounded the corner in time to see Tina reply, “Of course not, Sir.”

The supervisor jumped at his appearance. “Afternoon, Mr. Graves, sir!”

“Afternoon, ah,” It took a beat to place the face to a name. “Abernathy.”

Tina was suddenly next to him, speaking with urgency. Something about a Mr. Scamander and a crazy creature in a suitcase. Well, throwing a glance at this Mr. Scamander, he could believe him to be an animal smuggler, with his shifty eyes and nervous disposition.

“Let’s see the little guy,” he said as they made their way over to a cleared desk where Tina, with a flourish, placed the suitcase and threw it open, revealing its contents.

Pastries. It was a suitcase filled with pastries.

Graves could feel a headache creeping into the space between his brows. “Goldstein, a word. Excuse us, Mr. Salamander.”

“Ah, actually, it’s--” The man stuttered, but Graves had already walked away, Tina trailing behind.

Graves prefaced the conversation with a sigh. “Tina, what were you doing near the Second Salemers again?”

At least she had the decency not to deny it. “I was just passing by, Sir. It’s the first time since the incident, I swear.”

He knew she was telling the truth due to the fact that he, on the other hand, had attended nearly every meeting for the past month. It was a lucky break for both of them that they didn’t spot each other.

“--and she was there on those steps, and then I saw the boy.” Tina was saying. “I was just going to stay for a minute, at most. Then, Mr. Scamander--”

Graves held up a hand. “You were checking in on Credence?”

“I’m sorry, I know we shouldn’t interfere with No-Maj affairs. I just,” Tina cut herself off. “I have no excuse.” Cringing, she asked, “Am I fired?”

Graves sat on the edge of a nearby desk, tilting his head back as if asking the heavens for strength. But this was the basement level, which was about as far from heaven as you could get in MACUSA. That seemed like punishment enough.

“Somehow, Tina, no.” He looked back at her. “And you don’t have to worry about Credence anymore. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“Oh, Graves,” she looked like she was about to hug him again. “That’s really good of you.”

“Yes, well.” Graves cleared his throat. “It also turns out Credence might not be a No-Maj. His mother was a witch.”

“A witch?” Tina frowned. “How’d you find that out?”

“I’m in charge of major investigations. Finding out stuff is sort of what I do.”

“So,” she tapped her lip in thought. “He’s a squib?”

“Maybe.” Hopefully, his mind supplied. There were no laws about being involved with a squib, as they were technically part of a wizarding family.

“Well, unless we find his real parents, we’ll never know for sure.” She shook her head. “And with his adoptive mother being head of the witch hunters, it’d be a huge exposure risk.”

They were both well aware that Picquery had been up in arms of late about the threat of exposure. She was convinced they were poised on the brink of war with the No-Majs.

“Although I doubt he’d want anything to do with magic,” Tina quirked a lip. “Not when he’d been told it was evil practically his whole life, you know?”

 

* * *

 

The elevator ride back to the main floors were spent in a numb silence. Tina made a compelling argument, and try as he might, Graves couldn’t rationalize a reason for his prolonged contact with Credence. For all they knew, Mary Lou was lying about Credence’s birth mother as another justification for her abuse.

Picquery would have his head if she knew he’d been spending time with a No-Maj, and for no other reason than because he enjoyed it. To make matters worse, it was with the son of the leader of a fanatical anti-witchcraft cult.

To add the final layer of guilt onto an already overloaded shitcake, was the fact that Graves had been deceiving Credence for their entire, budding friendship. If he knew that Graves was a wizard, or that Graves wanted-- that Graves was no better than the skeezes who approached him on the street, then Credence wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

By the time Graves resettled behind his desk, his mind was made up. He can’t see Credence again, and he won’t. Starting right now.

It was the right thing to do, for the both of them. If it also meant that he’d never have to see the betrayal on Credence’s face, if he ever found out the truth, then even better.

And for the voice in the recesses of his brain hissing out, _coward_...

  
Well, there was an unopened bottle of firewhiskey at home that’d take care of that, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all thought that Mutual Pining tag was a joke? nahhh
> 
> ( thanks to every comment, message, and kudos! i treasure them deeply & they keep me going <3 )


	3. How Graves Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

The first week crawled by in a dull haze. For days, Graves caught himself glancing at the clock around noon until he remembered he had nowhere to be.

The second week was easier, if only because he was more preoccupied with work than ever. 

The attacks on the city had intensified, almost doubling in occurrences. It appeared to be contained downtown at the moment, but it was only a matter of time before the destruction spread throughout the island, maybe even reaching the outer boroughs. 

With every Auror and Obliviator team working overtime, Graves was far from the only one sleeping at the office. It was a blessing in disguise. The few hours he had to endure in his apartment were spent passed out from exhaustion, rushing through a quick shower, or throwing back a drink, not unlike the most depressing stay at a hotel imaginable.

He’d hardly been outside, resuming his habit of taking lunch at his desk. This was fine.

But winter still made its presence known, prodding with chilly fingers at the walls of the Woolworth Building, seeping into Graves’ bones as he mulled over grainy photographs at his desk.

The images were barely more than a blur, a lucky snap of some creature tunneling its way through the streets of New York, bursting forth from the concrete like an ominous wind. This particular shot was of Pike Street, less than half a block from the New Salem church.

He found himself flicking out a spark of light from the end of his wand, bringing it closer to the picture, scanning the background. Looking for someone.

It was hopeless. Shutting his eyes, he threw photo and wand alike onto the table, soon joined by his pair of reading glasses. He massaged the bridge of his nose and let himself indulge in worry, if only for a minute.

So far the worst injury had been a sprained ankle, as most of the attacks seemed concentrated in abandoned areas of the Lower East Side. Whatever it was, it was at least a considerate beast, for now. But it was inevitable that it’d soon outgrow its territory, and in a city this populated someone was bound to get caught in the crossfire. 

The image of Credence, lifeless and flung to the ground like a discarded ragdoll, came unbidden. Unlikely as it was, it was a fear that had fueled many a restless nights.

Credence. Graves hadn’t seen him since his conversation with Tina over two weeks ago, yet he found his thoughts returning often to the time they had spent together, brief as it was.

A person, at their core, was simply a collection of haphazard quirks, and Credence was no different. When Credence smiled, it was slow and gradual, like the unfurling of petals. He had a hidden sweet tooth, with an overt fondness for caramel chews. He spoke in a soft, measured cadence, care and thought in every word.

What does one do, Graves wondered, with the leftover bits of a person who was no longer in your life? Perhaps you locked it away, another addition to the mental box where your dead parents resided, the box labeled ‘People Who Knew Me As Percival’, filed under ‘Gone, Gone, Gone’.

It was a growing collection. 

 

* * *

 

It was a blustery winter’s morning, and Graves was cursing the defense charms that prevented him from apparating straight into the lobby. Instead, he was in an alleyway around the corner, the winds so strong that they nearly blew him into a dumpster as he popped into existence. 

Pulling his scarf over his nose, Graves emerged from the alley, joining the stream of people heading towards the Woolworth Building. Head tucked against the chill, he didn’t notice him until he nearly walked past.

Graves stopped abruptly a few feet away, staring at a familiar back, which was hunched from the cold as much as poor posture. People maneuvered around them, the stream split by two immovable rocks.

Credence hadn’t seen him yet; it wasn’t too late to move on, as if he didn’t see Credence either. 

As if that was ever an option. Graves called out, “Credence?”

Credence’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. Once again, Graves was reminded of their first meeting, so unbearably long ago.

Deciding to meet Credence halfway, Graves walked around to face him. Credence’s gaze was firmly on the ground. Graves would’ve thought the No-Maj repellent charm was effective this time, if it weren’t for Credence’s clenched jaw and the angry furrow of his brows.

“Credence,” he murmured. “I’m glad to see you.”

In response, Credence shoved a flier at him, as if he were no more than one of the inattentive businessmen teeming around them. 

After a beat, Graves took it. ‘ _ Burn in hell, witch! _ ’ it read. Fair enough. 

“I’m sorry, Credence. I didn’t mean to drop off the face of the planet like I did.” Another lie to add to the pile. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to accomplish. This was why he tried so hard to maintain distance, because something about close proximity to Credence made his rationale fly out the window.

Credence still didn’t look at him. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain yourself, Mr. Graves.”

The usage of not just his last name, but also a goddamn  _ title _ , hurt more than a physical slap. Credence was already walking away from him and Graves knew, in his gut, that if he didn’t do something this would be the last time he’d ever see him. 

“Credence, please,” he reached out to grab his arm. As soon as he made contact, Credence hissed in pain, recoiling from his touch. “Shit, you’re hurt.”

It was a testament to how bad the pain must’ve been, that Credence didn’t argue as he was hustled out of the way of the crowd, into the same alleyway Graves had just apparated into. 

The sounds of the street dropped away, and Graves could hear Credence’s labored breaths, see the clammy sheen on his brows that he didn’t catch before. “Oh, my boy, what has she done to you?”

“Nothing she hasn’t before,” Credence pushed out through gritted teeth. 

“No, something’s wrong,” Concern threaded his voice. “Have you been using the tincture I gave you?”

Credence shook his head. “I was out.”

Guilt threatened to rip his stomach out. This was his fault. He claimed to care for Credence, and then he abandoned him out of a selfish sense of self-preservation. “Oh, Credence,” he cradled the boy’s face in his hands, thumbs soothing over heated cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” 

Giving in, Credence slumped against his chest, where Graves could feel the slight tremors running through his body. 

Graves whispered apologies, again and again, into Credence’s hair. 

“Percival,” It came out scarcely above a whisper. “I’m so tired.” And with that, he promptly passed out in Graves’ arms.

 

* * *

 

If Graves hadn’t given up smoking years ago, he’d have burnt through a pack by now, at least. Instead, he was pacing a groove into his living room floor, every snap from the fire in the hearth causing his heart to skip a beat.

After Credence fell unconscious, there was only one thing he could think to do. He apparated them back to his apartment where he laid Credence down on his bed and, after a moment of deliberation, removed Credence’s jacket and peeled off his shirt.

At the sight of Credence’s back, Graves had to take a seat at the edge of the bed, reminding himself, very firmly, why he cannot simply march into the New Salem church and smite Mary Lou where she stood.

Deep, raw cuts marked Credence’s pale skin, as if a painter had been overzealous in his application of brush strokes, missing the canvas entirely in his eagerness, and striking the back of Credence’s arms instead. That was where it looked the worst, the beginnings of an infection seeping out of angry, red wounds.

Credence probably only managed to stay on his feet for as long as he did due to a built up resistance, and being numb from the cold.

Something wretched and ugly was trying to claw its way out of his chest, and Graves quickly put it aside for later. He needed to take care of Credence now.

He did the best he could, combining several potions from his medicine cabinet and some rudimentary healing spells he’d used only in the field, before. Graves found himself, once again, frustrated by the laws that kept him from calling a medical wizard, one who could’ve done a home visit in the wave of a wand.

About an hour later, from the armchair by the hearth where he was studiously not eyeing a bottle of firewhiskey, he heard shifting in the bedroom. He rushed in to find Credence blinking the sleep from his eyes, the side of his face pressed into the pillow from where he was lying on his stomach.

Graves sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle anything. He placed a gentle hand at the nape of Credence’s neck, petting the soft hairs there. “You alright, love?” he whispered.

“Mm,” Credence attempted to get up, only to flop back down with a winch. “Where am I?”

“My place. You passed out on your feet.”

“Don’t you have work?” Credence frowned up at him. “I’m sorry. I must be keeping you.”

“Hush. Don’t worry about shit like that.”

“But I do.” Credence’s voice was soft with sleep. “I think about it a lot.”

“What do you mean?” His hand had stilled, now just his thumb stroking indiscernible patterns on skin.

“I don’t know anything about you, Percival. I don’t know where you work or what you do.” Credence was gazing, half-lidded, off to the side. “You could be married for all I know. But you seem to know everything about me. Why is that?”

“Well, first of all, I’m not. Married that is.” His thumb trailed to rest against Credence’s cheek, cool in contrast to his earlier fever. “But you’re right, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“Why did you leave?” Credence asked in a muted hush. His eyes were closed.

“Because.” 

The silence dragged on for so long that Credence opened his eyes again. “Because?”

Graves found that he couldn’t quite put into words the reason why he avoided Credence. Because it wasn’t out of a professional sense of duty, or some altruistic need to protect the wizarding community. The reason he had to stay away was because when he looked at Credence, he thought he could see a glimpse of what made fifty years of marriage possible between his parents. 

When he studied the profile of Credence’s face, especially now, pillowed on white sheets that contrasted beautifully with his dark hair, Graves felt such affection and most of all, fear. Fear that one day his heart will be living outside his body, delicate and so very vulnerable.

His thumb traced the corner of Credence’s lip, ghosting over the space where lines would appear if he smiled. 

A rustling of the sheets, and then Credence was taking hold of his hand, bringing it to his lips where he pressed a small, lingering kiss to the palm. “It’s alright, Percival. You don’t have to tell me.”

In the quiet of the room, Credence fell asleep. Graves remained by his bedside for a long time, brushing back errant strands of hair, and he knew it was too late.

That he was already looking at his heart, tangled up in his sheets, dreaming.

 

* * *

 

“Percival?”

Graves made a noise of acknowledgement, not looking up from where he was applying ointment to Credence’s back. It was impossible to heal wounds this severe in a day, but at least he could clear the infection. He had cleaned Credence’s bloody shirt earlier with a scouring charm, claiming that his building had a superb laundry service when asked.

Credence’s head was bowed from where he sat on the bed. “Am I a freak?” 

This made Graves pause. “No, of course not.” He capped the bottle of healing salve, picking up the roll of bandages next. “It’s best to take your mother’s words with a grain of salt, Credence.”  

“It wasn’t from Ma.”

Knitting his brows, Graves adjusted on the bed until he could see Credence’s face. “Who said it, then?”

Credence bit his lip, gaze averted until Graves lifted his chin up with a finger. 

“Who called you that, Credence?”

“Senator Shaw.”

“What in the world were you doing with the Senator?”

“It was Ma’s idea,” Credence shook his head. “Somehow Shaw’s brother caught wind of us, wanted to put us in the paper. He took us to the offices and...it was humiliating.”

“Oh, my boy,” Graves tsked in sympathy. “Come here.”

Credence listed sideways until his head was nestled in the crook of Graves’ neck. His next words brushed against skin. “I wasn’t just embarrassed. I was angry.”

“I would be, too.”

“No, you don’t understand. I was so filled with rage, it felt like something was going to burst out, from here.” He placed a hand over Graves’ heart. “Something dark. And wrong.”

Graves covered his hand with his own. He couldn’t imagine Credence hurting a fly. Not Credence, who endured endless cruelty and came out the other side kinder and with more sweetness than the world had ever shown him.

“There are nights when I lose time.” Credence confessed. “I’d be in bed, drifting off, and then I’d wake up on the other side of town. I don’t know where I go.”

Could it be side-effects of trauma? As a coping mechanism, it wasn’t unheard of.

“I think there’s something wrong with me, Percival.” Credence’s hand curled into a fist against Graves’ chest, clutching at his shirt. “And I get these urges.”

“Oh?”

“Different from the darkness, but just as bad.” His hand loosened and trailed up, dipping beneath the opened collar of Graves’ shirt, fingers sliding over warm skin, resting on a quickened pulse. “Sinful urges.”

Voice pitched low, Graves murmured, “Some say sin is a manmade concept.”

Credence nuzzled into his neck, lips leaving a heated path as he spoke. “Do you think that?”

Graves wasn’t thinking much at all right now, to be honest. Nothing beyond the fact that Credence was in his bed, safe and receptive to his touch. And shirtless. “I think I better take you back.”

 

* * *

 

They pulled up in a cab about half a block from the New Salem church. It was already dark and well past the usual time Credence returned from soliciting. 

Graves instructed the cabbie to wait, exiting the automobile with Credence. He led him a little ways off before taking out his wallet, pulling out a wad of singles, luckily all No-Maj currency. “Here.”

“What is this for?”

“You know where I live now. If you’re ever in trouble, even if you’re not, you know where to find me.” Graves placed the bills firmly in his hand. “Just hop in a cab. Anytime.”

“Anytime?” Credence asked shyly, peering up from under his lashes. 

It was a relief to see that smile again, and Graves couldn’t resist brushing a thumb over it. “Yeah, love. Anytime.”

Graves watched until Credence disappeared inside the building, then paid for the cab and sent it away, apparating home.

  
That night he slept in the same sheets that Credence were in, and imagined he still felt his warmth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [me, scolding myself as i wrote this: this is so CHEESY, u fukin SAP, stop this nonsense, show some goddamn restraint]
> 
> speaking of restraint, or lack thereof, i may have to extend this fic by a couple of chapters just to get the flow right. we'll see. as always, your comments mean so much to me. every time i hit a block, or i'm struggling with a certain passage, i reread the sweet things you guys have said and it gives me that extra push to get through it. thank you with all my heart <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got lazy w/ my movie title puns - someone pls help me come up w/ a chapter title lol

On his way into work the next morning, Graves almost expected to see Credence outside the Woolworth Building again. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Credence was in his bed, which sounded a lot filthier than what actually happened. 

Nevertheless, Graves twisted his mouth to keep a smile from surfacing. As he got into the elevator, he saw a familiar figure rushing across the lobby. 

“Hold the door, Red,” he instructed the goblin.

“That’s a new one,” Red grumbled. “You usually like shuttin’ ‘em right in the face.”

Graves ignored him, greeting Tina as she jumped on board. “Morning, Goldstein.”

“Morning, Sir.” A beat as she got her breath back. “It’s good to see you. We were worried.”

Graves quirked a brow. “About what?”

“Well, you were out all of yesterday.”

“Yes, I took a sick day. I sent an owl.”

“Still, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a day off, in all these years.” Tina laughed. “What have you done with the real Graves?”

Graves gave her the side-eye, then graciously held the door opened as they reached the basement level. “I think this is your floor, Goldstein.”

Tina sighed. “Yes, it is. See you around, Sir.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s going  _ out _ ? For lunch?”

“Y- yes, Madam President,” his secretary replied. “Oh, there he is.” 

As Graves exited his office, he spotted Picquery hovering at the end of the hall, no doubt the reason that Rosie, his secretary, was in a tizzy.

Rosie beckoned him over, not so subtly darting glances at Picquery. “Sir, I was just about to tell you, Madam--”

“You’re going out for lunch?” Picquery interrupted. “There’s an interdepartmental meeting in ten minutes.”

“I’m aware. And I’m sure we’ll have a wealth of new information since the last meeting, this morning.”

“We’re in a heightened state of security, Graves.” Picquery drawled. “We need to stay as up-to-date as possible.”

“I’m just popping out for some fresh air. I’m, uh,” Graves coughed weakly. “A bit under the weather. I  _ was _ out yesterday for a good reason.”

Picquery eyed him, brow raised nearly up to her headdress. After a moment of deliberation, she relented. “Fine. Be back for the Surveillance Resources discussion this afternoon. No excuses.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Graves threw over his shoulder as he shrugged on his coat. He slipped out the door before she could add another thing. There was always another thing.

 

* * *

 

It was too cold to do much more than stick his hands in his pockets, collar raised against the bitter wind. At least he was huddled in the mouth of an alley, the walls providing a bit of a shield against the elements.

The New Salemers, on the other hand, were once again on the steps of the bank, surrounded by the thinnest crowd Graves had seen yet. It took dedication to sermonize in this weather. Or unwavering religious fanaticism, same thing. 

Graves was relieved to see Credence, at the very least, had on a pair of fingerless gloves. His job today seemed little more than to clutch the stack of fliers against his chest, lest they be ripped out of his hands by the strong gusts. 

As if feeling eyes on him, Credence turned to look in his direction. Graves pulled down his scarf to give a smile, which Credence returned. If Graves was actually sick, he was convinced that the sight of Credence, head ducked and cheeks pink from the attention, would’ve cured any ailment. 

Fortunately, Mary Lou gave a condensed version of her usual spiel, wrapping it up just a few minutes later. Graves waited for Credence to join him but, as the last of the spectators drifted away, he could see Mary Lou keeping Credence instead.

She spoke directly into his ear, face twisted in disdain, before walking off, confident Credence will follow.

Credence froze, wide-eyed, as if struck, before hurrying after her. Graves had already stepped out and was halfway across the square, before he was stopped with a quick shake of Credence’s head.  _ Not now _ , read Credence’s eyes,  _ I’ll handle this _ .

The Barebones scurried out of sight, and Graves was left behind, lost amongst the crowd.

 

* * *

 

Graves made several false starts towards the Woolworth Building, but in the end his gut instinct won out as he turned in the opposite direction, all but running to the New Salem church.

He squeezed around the building to the back, where a broken window let in a draft. Combined with the old, thin walls and Graves had no trouble hearing the conversation inside.

“Where were you last night, Credence?”

“I- I was home.”

“What do you take me for, an idiot?” Mary Lou’s voice was icy, with an undercurrent of contempt. “Chasity found this in your room.”

Graves risked a peek through the cracked window. Credence and his mother were on the first floor, where she had just thrown something to the ground between them.

Credence stared at whatever it was, silent.

As if proven right, Mary Lou shook her head. “Take it off.”

Credence reached for his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the otherwise quiet church. “Ma…”

“I am not your Ma!” It sounded like a sentiment she’d repeated before. “Your mother was a wicked, unnatural woman.” She snatched the belt from Credence.

Graves had his hand on the sill, ready to climb through the window, non-interference be damned, when the youngest sister stepped forward. 

“It’s mine,” she declared, a defiant tilt to her chin.

“Modesty…” Mary Lou said in shock.

“It’s mine, I-” Modesty faltered. “I took it from the donation box.”

Graves finally saw what “it” was, a wad of cash. The same one he forced into Credence’s hand last night. 

Mary Lou advanced on the small girl, belt in hand. 

Pushing the shutters fully opened, Graves threw a leg over the sill, damned if he was going to stand around and let this happen. Maybe it was about time he took a page from Tina’s rulebook.

Suddenly, there was a rush of wind as the belt was ripped out of Mary Lou’s grasp, dropping to the floor like a dead, leather snake. A collective breath was held as she slowly turned her palm over, which even from half a room away, Graves could see was dripping blood.

“What is this?” she asked in a hush, looking up at Credence.

Credence, who was breathing heavily, something akin to smoke pouring off of him in waves, swirling around his head like a smoldering crown. Tendrils of the black fumes were spreading through the church, curling around the rafters far up ahead. His eyes were going white and fear gripped Graves’ throat, fear for Credence’s safety.

“Credence!” He stumbled the rest of the way into the room. 

Credence turned his head, but it was like he was seeing right through Graves, uncomprehending. He recoiled when Graves withdrew his wand.

“Wait, no, this isn’t for you,” Graves gestured the wand towards Mary Lou and the two sisters, and they froze, mouth opened in mid-gasp. “Credence, please, listen to me. Can you hear me?”

His pupils were returning, and now they darted between the wand and Graves’ pleading face.

“I know, I should’ve told you sooner. It was wrong of me. I was,” Graves struggled to find the words, taking a tentative step forward. “I was afraid. Afraid to lose you. I was selfish.” He cracked a lopsided smile. “Still am, to be honest.”

Overwhelmed by the turn of events, Credence was near tears. The dark aura surrounded him in a protective shroud, pulsing with a kinetic energy. “Help me. Please.”

The air crackled with an electric tension, the calm before a fearsome storm. And Credence was at the eye of it, teetering on a precipice that Graves would give anything to pull him back from.

Another inch and Graves was close enough that the black smoke licked at his boots. “Come with me,” he all but begged. “You don’t belong here, you never have.”

Credence looked past Graves’ shoulders at his family, still stuck in place with matching expressions of horror. 

It was clear to Graves that Credence’s true fear was causing harm, especially harm to the only family he’d ever known. “Leave this place, before you do something you’ll regret.” 

Credence’s gaze flickered down, and Graves turned around to see that it was his youngest sister who drew his attention. 

With a glance back at Credence, Graves twisted his wand. 

Modesty dropped out of pose, gasping and clutching at her chest. Then, without any hesitation, she ran towards Credence, throwing her arms around his legs.

Credence dropped to his knees, hugging her to his chest, openly sobbing into her shoulder. The black smoke retreated, absorbed into Credence like the folding of wings.

After a beat, she pushed him to arm’s length. “Go.”

Credence sniffed. “What?”

“Go with him. Please, Credence.” She held a stiff upper lip, seeming to exude all the ferocity that was merely hinted at in her older brother. “We’ll be fine. Ma will take care of us.”

Credence gazed up at his mother, paralyzed like a grotesque wax figure. “You want to stay with her?”

Modesty nodded firmly. “She needs us.”

With unbearable tenderness, Credence tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, searching her eyes for any hint of uncertainty. Finding none, he whispered, “I don’t want you to forget me.”

“It’ll be alright,” she spoke with a confidence beyond her years. “As long as you don’t forget us.”

Hiding the tears threatening to spill over again, Credence cradled her head against his shoulder, clutching her like a lifeline. “You’ve always been the strong one.”

“You’re strong too, Credence,” she pointed out, muffled against his shirt. 

“I’ll miss you.”

She patted his head before giving him a gentle push, so she could ask him face-to-face, “Is the man going to make us forget you?”

“Only if you want to. I’ll stay, Modesty, if you need me.”

Tilting her head, she considered it, coming to a conclusion. “Maybe it’s better to forget. Then we won’t have to miss you.” With that, she walked back to join their mother. She put her hand in Mary Lou’s and gave a nod to Graves. 

Credence rose to his feet and now he stood besides Graves, taking in the sight of the Barebone clan, minus himself. “I love you, sis.”

“Bye, Credence.”

Graves placed a reassuring hand at the small of Credence’s back. “Ready?” he asked, more of Credence than Modesty.

Credence swallowed hard, before nodding once.

“ _ Obliviate _ ,” Graves murmured, and with a twirl of his wand, Mary Lou and her daughters relaxed their limbs, blinking into the middle distance as if waking from a dream. “Come on, we have to go.”

They made their way across the floor, Credence pausing at the sound of Ma’s voice.

“Where were we, girls?” Her tone was soft. “Oh, time to prepare supper.”

They slipped out the front door, careful not to draw attention. Graves was halfway down the steps when he felt Credence come to a halt behind him. Glancing back, he saw Credence wavering on the top of the steps, the immensity of his decision hitting him all at once. 

Credence’s breaths were coming out quick and shallow, his eyes, red-rimmed, darted around the square as if seeing it for the first time. He appeared utterly lost.

Graves jogged the few steps back to him, speaking lowly, “Love, look at me. Please.”

After another gulp of air, Credence managed to focus on him.

“I’m here.” Graves held out a hand and repeated, “I’m here.” He was willing to say it as many times as it took for it to sink in. He will set up camp and live on these godforsaken stairs if that was what Credence needed.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Slowly, Credence took his hand and it was the sweetest victory Graves had ever felt.

Graves threaded their fingers together, wanting nothing more than to turn their backs on the New Salem church, once and for all. “Let’s go.” 

Credence stared at their entwined hands. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

  
And Credence smiled, slow and gradual, like the unfurling of petals.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was kinda heavy. Extended fic an extra chapter. Just debating how much domestic fluff i should be including, may need to trim future chapters b/c of my self-indulgent ass smh…
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments!! <3<3 They are my sustenance as i mull over word choices until 4 in the morning like some sleep-deprived gargoyle, stone guardian of my shitty computer chair <3<3


	5. Chapter 5

 

> Do you really think that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to.
> 
> Oscar Wilde, _An Ideal Husband_

  
  


Percival Graves left home at the age of eleven to attend the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Upon graduating, he moved to New York City where he began his new position as a junior Auror at MACUSA. Eventually, he was promoted to Director of Magical Security.

Three decades of his life can be summarized in three sentences, a fact that had never bothered him before until one day, on the dawn of his fortieth birthday, it did.

It was a weekday, he remembered. He hadn’t slept well and woke up with an ambiguous soreness that seemed to serve no other purpose than to remind him of his age. Cup of coffee in hand, Graves leaned against one of the large, arched windows of his apartment, gaze turned towards not the streets below, but the sky above. He remembered watching the lazy drift of clouds, so sure and steady in their journey. Clouds did not wonder, they did not hesitate, they simply were.

To Graves, they were as good as any deity to pose a question, and just as likely to answer. So he asked them, _what now?_

And surprisingly, they answered.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t so much that Credence carved out a space for himself, as that he simply slotted into a niche that Graves wasn’t even aware was empty.

There was an extra toothbrush on the sink. A wool blanket thrown over the back of the couch. The distinct lack of dust covering everything. It was as if overnight, his apartment acquired that lived-in quality he’d heard so much about.

During the first week of Credence’s arrival, Graves had focused on logistics: setting up the spare room, digging out some clothes from his Ilvermorny days when he was a bit slimmer (though not by much, he’d always been broad across the shoulders), and in general, tried to give Credence as much space as was possible in a two bedroom apartment.

This went on for some time. It was not uncommon for Graves to exit his bedroom in the mornings to the sight of Credence already up, contemplating the skies outside the window as if he, too, were searching for answers.

Knowing this to be a necessary process, Graves strived to be a source of silent, ancillary support. He pulled a selection of books from his floor to ceiling shelves, leaving them piled on the side table by the reading lamp. He came home from work at a reasonable time, so that they could share meals of takeout dinners. He covered Credence with a blanket after the latter had fallen asleep on the couch, brushing back haphazard bangs.

There was an easy intimacy between them, and rarely were they in separate rooms until it was bedtime. Credence seemed to find comfort in Graves’ presence and of course, Graves was helpless to deny him anything.

Overall, it worked out for the best, since Graves was never very good with words anyway.

Then one night, pressed against each other’s side on the couch as they perused their respective reading materials, Credence asked “Are you afraid of me?”

It was one of those questions born out of a baseless but insistent fear, the type that one couldn’t help but dwell on, especially in the long hours of the night. The answer to such a question is at once unnecessary and of utmost importance.

Graves turned to study him. Credence was swimming in an old Quodpot sweater from Graves’ school days, knees tucked to his chest, hair askew from his earlier nap. Gently, Graves wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging until Credence was nestled in the crook of his neck. “I could never be.”

 _I’m afraid for you_ , he didn’t add.

 

* * *

 

It was strange to come home and not have everything exactly where he had left it. This wasn’t a criticism, but merely an observation. In fact, Graves couldn’t have asked for a better roommate.

Credence was clean and tidy, almost obsessively so. During the second week of his stay, he started offering to make home-cooked meals. Graves worried that this stemmed from some misplaced guilt about taking advantage of Graves’ hospitality, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the topic.

So instead, he dropped a stack of money on the kitchen counter. “For groceries,” he clarified.

Credence closed his dropped jaw. “Are you buying the whole market?”

“It’s for more than one trip.”

“You’ve never went grocery shopping before.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sure, I have.” Graves bluffed.

“Alright. How much are a dozen eggs?”

Graves broke after a minute. “So I’m not the most familiar with No-Maj currency.” He neatly bypassed the fact that he had no idea how much a dozen eggs cost in Dragots either.

Credence furrowed his brows. “No-Maj?”

And thus began Graves’ first informal lesson about the wizarding world. It was how they spent most nights, Credence teeming over with questions he came up with during the day, and Graves trying to answer with as much as he could dredge up from his recollection of school. His memory was spotty, to say the least.

It was after dinner and the fire was crackling in the hearth, chasing the chill away.

“And this International Statute of Secrecy,” Credence began. “It’s what keeps witches hidden from normal people?”

“It’s what keeps _us_ hidden from _No-Majs_ , yes.”

Credence made a thoughtful noise, sitting back on his haunches. He was kneeling on the floor, in front of the couch where Graves sat, a spread of textbooks opened around him.

Graves was about to return to The New York Ghost, when he felt Credence rest his cheek against his knee. He looked down to see Credence staring off into the middle distance, gnawing his lips to shreds. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

Graves ran soothing fingers through Credence’s hair, which was already getting a little shaggy, curling over his ears and the back of his neck. He scratched gently at Credence’s scalp and waited.

After a few minutes, Credence broke the silence. “If you hadn’t been by the church that day, and you didn’t know I was…” he trailed off, voice even softer when he spoke again. “Would you still have saved me?”

The possibility of Credence not being a wizard, or even a squib, had crossed his mind before the day of the incident. He remembered vowing to cut off all contact. He also remembered breaking that vow just a little over two weeks later.

The terrifying truth was that it wouldn’t have made a difference if Credence had been a No-Maj.

Perhaps it would’ve ten years ago, or even just five, but at this point Graves had spent his entire life upholding the reputation of his family name. He’d pursued his career with the single-minded focus of a boarhound, and in the end, he didn’t have much to show for it.

Maybe this made him selfish, definitely reckless, but Graves was a man who always got what he wanted, and it had a long time since he wanted something as much as he wanted Credence.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, pulling Credence to his feet.

After a moment of hesitation, Credence clambered into Graves’ lap, straddling his thighs. Even in the dim light of the fire, Graves could tell Credence was flushed to the roots of his hair.

A lesser man would’ve taken the opportunity to avoid a difficult conversation. Instead, Graves cradled Credence’s face in his big palms, making sure Credence was looking at him as he said, “The only way I would’ve left you with Mary Lou is if you forced me to.”

Credence’s eyes softened, nuzzling into one of his palms.

“I’d be lying if I said I had a plan, because I don’t. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a plan.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I only knew that it was killing me, the thought of something happening to you, something that I could have prevented.”

“Percival,” Credence shook his head, and Graves trailed his hands down to hold him by the waist. “My life was the way it was long before you came along. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“But I _am_ sorry,” He slipped under the hem of Credence’s sweater, thumbs rubbing into sharp hipbones. “I’ve been causing you trouble since the day we met.”

“I could say the same thing.” Credence’s voice came out low and distracted, hands smoothing the fabric over Graves’ chest, lingering.

The movement caused Credence’s sweater to slip down over one shoulder and on impulse, Graves leaned in to kiss the exposed skin. Then again, and again, trailing his lips along warm skin until he arrived at the junction between shoulder and neck. He bit down softly, just to feel the flesh between his teeth, and Credence gasped.

Later, he won’t remember who kissed who first, only that they did, Credence melting under his touch. Soft and pliant, Credence parted his lips in invitation, giving a surprised moan at the first touch of tongue, and the sound ignited something searing in Graves’ gut.

He dipped below the waistband of the loose pajamas Credence had on, massaging the soft swell of his ass, enjoying the way it fits in his palms.

Credence clutched at his shoulders, letting the kiss turn sloppy and wet, arousal clouding his eyes. He whined, low and needy, spreading his thighs to press impossibly closer. Graves could feel the drag of Credence’s erection against his stomach, small jerk of his hips like he couldn’t help himself.

“Please, please,” Credence was begging in between kisses, and Graves was growing uncomfortably tight in his pants. He couldn’t think past how good Credence felt in his lap, responsive and so, so eager. He wanted to bend him over the arm of the couch and take him, rough and fast. He wanted to lay claim to every inch he could reach, listen to Credence cry out as he buried himself deep inside.

“Ah, fuck, wait,” Graves panted. “Wait, maybe--” He lost his train of thought for a minute as Credence grinded down onto his cock. “Maybe, we should take it slow.”

“Alright,” Credence replied breathlessly and then took one of Graves’ hand from where it was grabbing his ass, and placed it on the front of his pants, where his hard length was leaving a damp spot. He moaned as he grounded into Graves’ palm, throwing his head back, and Graves promptly forgot what he was saying.

In one swift maneuver, he lifted Credence up and threw him on the couch, raking up his sweater to his chin, peppering kisses into the smooth, flat planes of his stomach. He traveled up, leaving a hot, wet trail, giving a quick nip to a pert nipple because he couldn’t resist.

Credence’s hips jerked at the contact, cries muffled into his sleeve.

Slotting between parted legs, Graves covered Credence’s body with his own, pressed from hip to chest. “Let me see you, love,” he said as he moved the arm covering Credence’s face.

Credence was hiding kiss-swollen lips, dark eyes half-lidded, and pale skin burning in an all-over flush. His pretty mouth dropped open as Graves lined their hips together, lost in the heady friction.

Graves captured his mouth in a devouring kiss, reaching a hand between them to palm Credence’s erection, swallowing the broken sounds this caused, before pushing Credence’s pants down to mid-thigh.

At the first touch of flesh to flesh, Credence arched his back, eyes squeezed shut.

“That’s my baby,” Graves muttered, entranced by the sight, mindless of what he was saying. “That’s it, you’re so good.” He stroked him in a steady rhythm, thumbing the slit, the tip slick and shiny.

Both of Credence’s hands were clutching the arm of the couch above his head, body pulled taut like a bowstring. “Ah, ah, Perci--” Name stuck in his throat as he tensed, coming in long stripes over his stomach and chest.

“Fuck,” Graves stroked him through it, then fumbled at his own pants, pulling his aching cock out, the come on his fingers a welcomed, wet sensation. He leaned back on his knees, taking in the image of a spent, heaving Credence, the white of his inner thighs, splayed in invitation. Another few pumps and he was coming with a grunt, adding to the mess already on Credence’s stomach. “Jesus.”

It took a moment to get his breath back, heart still pounding in his ears.

Running a soothing hand over Credence’s thigh, he kissed the knee pressed up against the back of the couch. Then he pulled Credence’s pants the rest of the way off, using it to mop up most of the spill and his soiled fingers before tossing it to the floor. He’ll clean it with a scouring charm once his brain was more than a pleasant buzz of white noise.

Credence made a soft sound, eyes closed and nearly asleep

“Come here, baby,” Graves pulled him into his lap, and Credence instinctively wrapped his legs around his waist, face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

They made their way to Graves’ bedroom, Credence in his arms as if he weighed nothing, depositing him on the bed. Stripped down to his boxers, Graves slipped in behind him, curled around his slight frame. With a wave of his hand, all the lights flickered off, including the fire in the den.

  
Graves pressed in until they were flush from head to toe, so close that his eyes closed when Credence fell asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) woo title drop  
> 2) yes i quoted a pablo neruda love sonnet, u guys encouraged me to be a sap so  
> 3) extended one more chapter b/c plot
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments, they keep me warm in this hellish snowstorm, seriously send help <3<3<3


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Graves woke up alone, wrapped around a pillow, and proceeded to go through several heartstopping scenarios, including the possibility that he’d dreamt the whole thing.

Then Credence appeared in the doorway, dressed in only the large sweater from last night which barely reached the tops of his thighs, a sight distracting enough that Graves didn’t notice the mug of coffee being offered to him.

“Percival?”

“Mm, right,” Graves took it and then snagged onto the hem of the sweater before Credence could walk off, toppling him to the bed. “Where are you going?”

“I was thinking about looking for my pants,” Credence replied, sheepish. He attempted to pull the fabric over his more sensitive areas. “Might be more proper.” 

Graves set the mug onto the side table, coffee forgotten as he crawled over Credence, kissing his neck and collarbone. “I like this look though.” He ran a hand up the underside of Credence’s thigh, caressing the bottom of his buttocks. “Shows off your assets.”

“Percy,” Credence said with a laugh. He threw his arms around Graves’ neck. “Can I call you Percy?”

It was rare enough to hear his first name, Graves didn’t think there was a soul left who used his nickname. “You can call me whatever you want.”

It was the name ‘Percy’ that Credence sighed later, as Graves divested him of his sweater, running big hands down his sides, pushing his knees apart to take him into his mouth. After that, he wasn’t forming words at all.

 

* * *

 

They did manage to make it out of the bedroom at some point to have a late brunch. It was a Saturday and the shops were opened until late, so Graves suggested they see about getting Credence a wardrobe of his own. 

As a quick fix, Graves had attempted to magically tailor some of his own clothes, resulting in a strangely proportioned shirt, and a pair of shredded slacks. 

“There’s a certain finesse to this,” Graves muttered as he prepared to try again, when Credence placed a hand on his raised wand arm.

“Let’s go to the shops, Percy.”

 

* * *

 

Bundled in scarves and coats, they stood in the middle of the living room. 

Graves wrapped an arm around Credence’s waist, tucking him to his chest. “You ready?”

Credence nodded. 

“Close your eyes, it might help.” And then with a wave of his wand, they disappeared into thin air.

With a silent whoosh of air, they dropped into an alleyway. By the look on Credence’s face, closing his eyes didn’t help. 

“Take your time,” Graves said, rubbing circles on his back. “Apparating can be a little rough the first time.”

“It was like,” Credence swallowed, a bit green around the gills. “Like being condensed in a tube and then spat out.”

“You’d get used to it, though I wouldn’t recommend trying it out as your first spell.” He ushered them out onto the street, a familiar rush of people sweeping by, undeterred by the chilly weather.

They soon arrived in front of the entrance to Grand Central Terminal, Graves holding the door, leading Credence inside with a hand to the small of his back. 

Credence glanced up, confused. “Are we going somewhere?”

“In a sense.” 

They walked briskly across the cavernous lobby, taking a short flight of stairs down to the lower level where they stopped beneath an arched entrance, ‘TO PARCEL ROOM’ embossed on top and a dimly lit hallway before them. It was a quiet stretch of the station, out of the way from both the tunnels which led to train platforms, and the No-Maj shops on the other side of the terminal.

Still, Graves took a quick look around before taking Credence to one side of archway, facing the brick wall. 

“Percival, what are we doing?” 

“Trust me.” With that, Graves pushed him headfirst into the solid wall.

Credence stumbled out the other side, hands braced for an impact that never came. As soon as Graves joined him, he whirled around. “You could’ve warned me.”

“Where’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” Graves laughed when he was swatted away as he tried to grab Credence by the waist. “Welcome to Grand Central.”

It was a near perfect mirror of the No-Maj version, except the shops were decidedly more exotic. Oh, and it was snowing.

“Are we still indoors?” Credence gushed, hands held out to catch the sparkling white flakes, which disappeared upon contact with the ground. He tilted his head back, staring at the domed ceiling, identical to the one on the other side of the wall. 

“It’s a decoration, for the holidays.” Graves watched as Credence grinned in open delight, eyes lit up with wonder. 

They window-shopped for nearly an hour, Credence marveling at all the things Graves took for granted. Owls preening in their cages, goblins exiting the Gringotts Bank, a quill dancing by itself over parchment. Credence was charmed by every display.

In turn, Graves was enchanted by the pretty picture that Credence made, dark lashes coated in snowflakes, cheeks red with excitement. He found excuses to touch, by brushing snow from Credence’s hair or simply standing nearby when Credence was being extra expressive, grabbing onto his arm to point out something. 

Several times they walked past the wand shop, which Credence pointedly pretended not to notice. When Graves tried to bring up the subject, Credence suggested, “Maybe later, when I have the basics down.”

Graves pointed out that wandless magic was typically something that came well after the basics.     

He was still explaining the proper procedure to learning magic when they entered a music store, and Graves paused mid-sentence to find himself amidst rows of phonographs of all different brands and models. Some were charmed to fit in the palm of his hand, others towered above him, nearly reaching the ceiling.

Credence had wandered to the back, where Graves found him talking to the shop assistant. 

“Ah, I was just looking. Nothing in particular,” he was saying as the assistant, a pretty young slip of a girl, nodded with interest. 

“Any singer you like?” She batted her lashes. “Maybe something romantic?”

“Um, maybe…” Credence tilted his head thoughtfully. “Oh, there you are.” 

Graves emerged from around a towering stack of records. “I didn’t know you like music.”

“You have a Gramophone at your place,” he shrugged. “I was just curious.”

Huh, that must’ve came with the apartment. Would explain the lack of the records to go with it, if it was just intended for decor. 

“Some new 78s just came in,” the assistant offered. 

Graves watched in amusement as she took Credence by the elbow, leading him towards the far wall which were lined up to the ceiling with the latest hits. With a wave of her wand, a selection floated down, leaving Credence frowning in the middle of a record-tornado. 

“This one is Isla Bexley’s latest. It’s one of my favorites.” At Credence’s look of confusion, she added, “From Incantation Records?” 

Feeling that Credence may have suffered enough, Graves meandered over. “We’ll take them all.”

“All?” she squeaked. 

Graves waved the records away, stacking them in a neat pile on a nearby stool. “Yes, please,” he drawled, curling a hand around Credence’s waist. 

Her eyes flickered to the point of contact before she straightened, taking the pile into her arms. “Yes, Sir, right this way.” 

As she headed back towards the front, Credence said lowly in his ear, “You didn’t have to get so many.”

“Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Credence’s eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t get you anything.”

“I know something you can give me,” Graves growled, hand tightening on his hip. “How about you let me…”

“Percy,” Credence was flushed but didn’t move away.

“...teach you some damn magic.”

Graves snorted as Credence sulked to the front of the store. Worth it.

 

* * *

 

Credence’s Christmas present also included an entire new wardrobe, some of which they were able to take home same day. Anything tailor-made was delivered a few days later.

Credence studied his reflection in the full length mirror in Percival’s room. Or their room, rather, since he’d been sleeping here since…

He shook his head. Pleasant as those memories were, it was too early for such thoughts. Percival had just left for work, giving Credence a long, lingering kiss before he vanished in the middle of the living room. He still wasn’t entirely used to that method of travel. 

If he were being honest, he wasn’t used to a lot of things. Like not being hungry or on edge all the time. Or waking up next to Percival, clutched to the other man’s chest as if he were something precious. Being taken care of, in general, was a new concept to him. 

Maybe it was better this way. Credence can’t imagine any of these things becoming novelties that wore off, or that one day he’d take Percival’s kindness for granted. 

Turning around, he looked over his shoulder into the mirror at another example of Percival’s generosity. He was dressed in a light blue shirt tucked into gray slacks, along with a sensible pair of winter boots. Nothing flashy like what Percival preferred (and it was flashy, regardless of the man proclaiming that all wizards dressed like that), but it was still nicer than anything Credence had ever owned.

His coat was on the bed behind him, and Credence glared at it in concentration, really focusing on the image of it flying towards him, thinking loudly ‘ _ accio’.  _ The coat zipped into his waiting hands and Credence smiled triumphantly, almost checking to see if Percival saw that. 

One thing he was getting used to was the shower of praise during their magic lessons, Percival kissing him soundly every time he successfully performed a cast. “ _ And wandless, no less! _ ” Percival would exclaim, grabbing him in another kiss, which would sometimes devolve into something not entirely educational.   

There he went again, thinking such thoughts. When did he become such a cad? 

Credence took one last look at himself, and realized he barely recognized the man in the mirror. His mother would’ve never allowed his hair to get to its current state, covering his ears and curling down the back of his neck, bangs swept to the side so it wouldn’t obstruct his eyes. His overcoat was made of a rich, heavy wool, dark gray with a navy trim. He looked like a businessman or some official government type, like Percival. 

He found his thoughts returning to Modesty. Did she have enough to wear in this weather? Was she eating enough? Ma did always have a soft spot for his youngest sister, or whatever was closest to a soft spot in someone like Ma. 

Still, he gnawed at his lip in worry. If Percival knew he was feeling like this, he’d be given a gentle, but stern talking-to about misplaced guilt.

Taking a deep breath, Credence headed for the door. His eye caught a flash of something red half-tucked into the couch cushions. One of Percival’s scarfs, the red one with the embroidered monogram  _ P. G. _ in the corner. Credence always thought it was a bit much of Percival, to have so many things monogrammed, not just scarfs but also handkerchiefs, towels, silk bathrobes, you name it. Secretly, Credence thought it stemmed from a possessive need to claim things.

After a moment of deliberation, Credence wrapped the scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into his coat. Then he was off to the markets, traveling the good ol’ No-Maj way.

 

* * *

 

For the past five minutes, Graves had been doing little more than watching the clock, drumming his fingers on his desk, when he got a visitor.

He looked up at the sound of his door opening, because Picquery thought her time was too valuable to waste on trivial niceties like knocking. Rosie skittered behind her, attempting to get the first word in. “Sir, Madam President wanted--”

“Thank you, Rosie,” said Picquery as she shut the door. She helped herself to a seat in front of Graves’ desk. “I wanted to discuss with you tomorrow’s Surveillance meeting.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you for asking.” Graves took a sip from his cold mug of coffee and made a face.

Picquery sat back and crossed her legs. “Are you, though?”

Immediately, Graves regretted his lack of self-control. Let sleeping dogs lie, or they’ll sniff out uncomfortable topics of conversation. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been strange lately.” Picquery titled her head, examining him. “Something’s different about you.”

“You’re right, I got a haircut.”

“Oh, I know what it is.” Picquery smirked and Graves was thrown back to their days at Ilvermorny, when he knew her as Phina. “You’re happy.”

“That’s a weird assumption to make.” Graves cleared his throat. “As if I weren’t always happy.”

“Mmhm,” she raised a brow, smug as if proven right. “Then I guess you keep sneaking glances at the clock because you like the decor.”

“The Surveillance meeting, Madam President?” 

She didn’t roll her eyes, because that was beneath her, but it was a close thing. “The latest reports from Proudfoot came in. We’re dropping the threat level to four.”

Graves looked at the miniature version of the exposure meter on his desk, currently pointed at the orange slice, level five: severe. “Congratulations.”

“While that is indeed good news, we still need to get to the bottom of what caused that slew of unexplained activity.” Never let it be said that Picquery wasn’t thorough in her pursuits.

“Perhaps...” Graves tried to exude a reasonable tone. “We’re better off investing our resources in other areas.”

“Need I remind you that level four is still a far ways from zero threat. Now is not the time to let our guard down.” 

“I agree wholeheartedly, that’s why we here at Magical Security are ever vigilant.” Graves steepled his fingers on his desk. “However, it’s been weeks since the last attack. There hasn’t been any new sightings or damage anywhere in the city. It would be prudent, I think, to shift some teams over to other matters.”

After a moment, Picquery nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll consider it.”

“Whatever you think is best, Madam President.”

She stood to leave, pausing at the door to add, “Oh, and Graves?”

He looked up from where he had returned to his paperwork.

“You could leave a little earlier tonight, if needed. For your date.” 

“I don’t--” But the door was already closing behind her. 

She always did had to have the last word. 

 

* * *

 

Credence finished at the markets later than usual, but then he should’ve anticipated the crowds, always heavier around the holidays. 

“Thank you,” he said as he reached for his neatly-wrapped package of meats on the counter.

“Anytime, honey,” replied the butcher’s daughter, who winked at him. 

He smiled in return and left the butcher shop. Ever since he started dressing better, people had been awfully friendly. They must think he came from money, some highbred family or as an entrepreneur. They’d be disappointed to find out that he was no more noble than the orphans who roamed the streets.

Like this child here, a boy of no more than ten or eleven, sat on the curb. Something pulled at Credence’s chest. Misplaced guilt or not, it’d be wrong not to help those less fortunate. 

He dug in his pockets, pulling out the remainder of his money after his grocery trip. Crouching down to eye level, he handed it to the boy, who widened his eyes in surprise. “Really, Sir?”

“Of course, take it.” He pressed the cash into small hands.

The boy nodded in thanks, stowing it in his jacket pocket when his head snapped up at the ringing of a bell. It was a familiar sound.

A chill ran up Credence’s spine as he recognized it. The dinner bell. He stood up, looking ahead of where the boy was running towards.

There they were, the Second Salemers, on the other side of the square. He hadn’t realized how close to the church he was as he meandered his way through the shops and booths. Irrational fear gripped his heart, and he had to remind himself to take deep breaths. 

Eventually, the panic faded, leaving behind a painful curiosity. Of their own accord, his legs started walking in the direction of the church, outside of which was an even more familiar sight. Ma and Chasity ushering the children through the doors, matching serene smiles on their faces. 

His gaze searched for Modesty, spotting her a little ways down the block, handing out fliers. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist approaching her.

“May I have one?” he asked, gesturing to the pile in her arm. 

Wordlessly, she gave him one, no sign of recognition in her eyes. Credence was vaguely disappointed, even though he knew that was ridiculous. 

“Would you...tell me about your cause?” 

As she repeated a spiel he knew all too well, he took the time to study her. She’d always been a pale wisp of girl, but she looked even thinner than the last time he saw her, which felt impossibly long ago. Her cheeks were sallow, and a little sunken in.

Credence crouched down, much like he did for the little boy earlier, and asked her, “What’s your name?”

She eyed him distrustfully before spitting out, “Modesty.”

“Modesty, that’s a pretty name.” When he got no reply, he continued. “Modesty, are you...happy at the New Salem church?”

Modesty frowned, as if this was a test and she was trying to figure out a complex problem. Suddenly, her frown took on a different quality and she asked, almost dreamily, “Do I know you, Sir?”

Credence’s heart was in his throat. He knew what he should say, but he also knew what he wanted to say, and was torn between them like a man on a torture rack. 

“Modesty, what are you doing?” Chasity said from behind him, and he straightened hastily, turning around.

His first younger sister wasn’t faring well either. From this less of a distance, he could tell she was swimming in her overcoat, one thin wrist reaching out for Modesty, who scurried to hold her hand.

“I gave him a flier,” mumbled Modesty, gaze averted.

“Well, it’s time for supper. Let’s go.” On second thought, she added, “God bless, Sir.”

Credence watched them retreat into the church, doors shutting behind them. Unease roiled his stomach, not unlike the nausea of apparating for the first time. Except this time, the feeling lingered, long after he’d made his way home.

 

* * *

 

>   
>  I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.
> 
> Oscar Wilde, _An Ideal Husband_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i left my house today to get cream for my coffee and immediately regretted the decision. so now i'm hibernating and cranked out this second ch. \o/
> 
> i hope u guys are enjoying it, i promise the plot is gonna pick up v. soon! once again, comments are love and i live for them <3<3

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on my main [@jeahtastic](http://jeahtastic.tumblr.com/) or my gradence sideblog [@accio-graves](http://accio-graves.tumblr.com/), I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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